I wake up and it all seems so familiar. I suppose that in another life, I was a buzzard on a fence post. And in another, I was the fence post. But where? Was it here, or on some other earth?
An Accident of Birth
On some days, I was born in a scorching valley,
to write with a cactus spine that ends in lines of clotted blood,
about raindrops so rare that when they do come,
they seem like silver coins on the closed eyes of the dead,
whose words and dreams are dust.
On other days, I’m soft green moss,
and what I mean, is what I would have said,
if it had not changed, so much.
[ 297 ]
Categories: New Poems & Pieces